


The One Where Sam Is Uncertain Of Gabriel's Intentions

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam grew up believing that, when it comes to Christmas, it's the thought that counts the most - which bodes poorly (or maybe wonderfully) for him, because Sam can't stop thinking about Gabriel. Not that Gabriel is giving him much of a choice in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sam Is Uncertain Of Gabriel's Intentions

  
B-Side: Sam   


The first Christmas that Sam can remember is from when he was four. The gift he’d found waiting at the end of his motel bed had been a Ken doll – it had been wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and tan shorts, and Sam had asked Dean why Santa hadn’t brought him the toy power tools he’d wanted. Dean had told him that sometimes Santa was busy, and even if you were really, _really_ good, he got confused and gave you the wrong things. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, Dean had reassured him, or even Santa’s, not really. But sometimes it was the thought that counted the most.

Every Christmas since then has been a reiteration of the same idea: it’s the thought that counts. From the time when Sam had learned that there was no such thing as Santa (age six, listening to Dean talking to another boy at school about how he wasn’t sure he’d be able to afford a gift this year, and he didn’t think his little brother could take it if “Santa” didn’t show up) to his adult years, he’s always tried to hold to that lesson. You don’t always get what you want, but the fact that you get anything at all is always precious. He’s found that it serves to make him more aware of what he’s buying for people. It makes him try and pick presents that mean something, rather than presents that are just _there_.

This Christmas isn’t any different. Sam buys his gifts for Dean weeks in advance (Led Zeppelin on vinyl, a poster for a medical soap opera that Dean thinks Sam doesn’t know he watches, new boots, a few pairs of jeans), buys a gift for Jessica even though they aren’t together anymore, and then sets aside a nice chunk of money for a small tree, for wrapping paper, for Christmas dinner. By the time finals week rolls around, Sam’s all set.

Except for the part where he can’t stop thinking about Gabriel.

It’s becoming a problem.

Like, a _serious_ problem.

He keeps returning to the night that Gabriel drove him home, the sleet hammering against the windshield and the sun little more than a weak splash of light and color against the horizon. Sam had rested his cheek against the window, and his breath had created a circle of thin fog around his mouth. The radio had played softly, more background noise than anything else, but Sam remembers that it had been Christmas tunes, and Gabriel had hummed quietly along a few times. The drive hadn’t taken all that long – calling Dean and getting him to come back to campus probably wouldn’t have taken much more than a few extra minutes – but Sam had been grateful for the offer anyways. Gabriel’s car had been warm and dry, and _comfortable_. That was the part that had struck Sam the most – how easy it was to close his eyes and drift while Gabriel drove. It hadn’t felt like sitting in the car of a stranger at all.

When Gabriel had dropped him off, he’d smiled. It was a smile like he was holding a secret close to his chest, and Sam had dreamed about it that night, but he still can’t remember what else the dream involved.

He returns to the present suddenly, unhappily, reminded of where and when he is by Dean stomping around in the kitchen. Dean’s been acting…well. He thinks he’s being subtle, but he really isn’t – Sam’s always been able to tell when things are bothering his brother, and he’s always had a sixth sense for when those things just happened to be related to Dean’s love life. It’s not always the most pleasant superpower to have, but it’s a dirty job and someone’s got to make sure that Dean doesn’t have another emotional meltdown, like he did over Lisa. Dean occasionally talks about how Jessica breaking up with him had left Sam in a near catatonic state (lies, all of it), but the slightest mention of Lisa tends to provoke a reaction not unlike the meltdown of a nuclear reactor.

Sometimes, Sam thinks that he’s the only one in their family who recognizes how emotionally stunted they are. But that’s not the point. The point is that Dean’s got his eye on someone, a _male_ someone (which is…unusual, okay, but not unprecedented), judging by the conversation that they’d had about presents.

(“Do I have to give you the talk?”

“Don’t you _dare_ , Sam.”

“Seriously, though, how long has it been? Like, a year?”

“Six months.”

“Still, that’s a long time for you. What gives?”

“You’re the one who’s assuming this is something that it isn’t.”)

So yeah, between that, Gabriel, and his upcoming finals, Sam feels like his brain is overloaded. He doesn’t really want to ask Dean about his crush or whatever, because he’s worried that doing so will drive Dean further away from the dude, and whatever it is he’s involved in (if he’s “involved” at all) already seems sort of tentative, hesitant on Dean’s part. He doesn’t want to go to Gabriel and ask if that ride home… _meant_ something, because he’s a student and Gabriel’s an advisor, a _male_ advisor, and that’s always been Dean’s thing, the girls _and_ guys thing, not Sam’s, and he doesn’t want to have to worry about his finals, because _Christ_ , he’s already got enough drama going on in his life to provide plots for a soap opera for like three years.

Sam scrubs his hands over his face as Dean clatters into the living room, muttering quietly to himself. Sam catches “Amazon” and “doesn’t celebrate Christmas” and realizes that Dean’s fretting over buying a present for his mystery beau. _Again_. Sam doesn’t get why Dean’s worrying over whether the guy celebrates the holidays or not – it’s cold outside, December is one of those months where people seem to be manically cheerful or down in the dumps, and every store in America is obsessively playing the same three Christmas songs over and over. Why _wouldn’t_ he want a gift, even if he doesn’t celebrate anything? If nothing else, it might make the month a little more bearable for him.

Dean drops down onto the couch, sticking his feet underneath one of the throw pillows, and Sam stares at him. “You’re really getting yourself worked up over this, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying! Look, whoever this guy is, if he’s as into you as you’re into him, he won’t care.” Dean glares at him, and Sam realizes his mistake too late.

“I’m not into him!”

Sam holds up his hands, trying to ward off Dean’s evil eye. “Okay, okay. Look, why don’t you just tell him it’s a holiday present? Don’t mention Christmas or Hanukkah or anything, just give him the present and say ‘happy holidays.’”

Dean takes a deep breath, and then another. “Okay. That could work.”

“You’re over thinking this whole thing. Have you found a present yet?”

“I think so. Maybe. It’s stupid, though.”

“So give him a stupid gift. He’ll probably think it’s funny. And then you two can fall in love and adopt a cat together, and _you_ can stop freaking me out every time you panic over this guy.”

Dean’s eases, his mouth turned down in a mock-scowl. “Have I mentioned what an asshole you are, lately?”

Sam smiles. “Only every other day.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Sam smiles as Dean settles deeper into the couch, grumbling softly. He looks comfortable. A little less freaked out than before. Sam’s glad that he could help, at least a little bit.

“What about you?” Dean _sounds_ like he’s just asking an idle question, but Sam knows better. Sam sits up a little straighter.

“What about me, what?”

“Are you playing Santa this year?”

“I’ve gotten you a present, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean for other people. Anyone new in your life, Sammy?”

Sam freezes. _Oh God_. “Don’t call me Sammy, and no, no one.”

“C’mon, Sam, tell the truth. You eyeing someone?”

 _Shit_. Sam’s never been very good at lying to his brother. “Even if I were, which I’m not, what difference would it make to you?”

“Well, I’d have to make sure she’s not gonna run out on you like Jessica did.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. And then, to himself, “ _She_.” If Dean didn’t know before, he knows now. Maybe not the full extent of it, but it’s only a matter of time before he figures everything else. Not just the “Sam having thoughts about guys _that_ way” thing, but the thing with Gabriel, as well. Dean’s good at ferreting out secrets, especially when they’re _Sam’s_ secrets.

Sam swallows. Glances at Dean, who’s staring up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, one knee drawn up towards his chest. Is he feeling weirded out? Sam could understand the reasoning behind that – after all, it’s not like he and Dean ever had… _that_ conversation. Sam had discovered sex on his own, and Dean’s contribution to the process had been limited to a hearty “good job, Sammy” upon learning about Sam’s first kiss. “Dean?” Dean blinks slowly. “What’re you thinking?”

“Thinking about how much food we’ll need to buy,” Dean says. “For how many people. Think we should get a ham instead of a turkey?”

Sam takes a deep breath, and counts the seconds it takes for him to exhale. _One…two…three…_ Nothing. Dean isn’t looking at him like he’s lost it, isn’t saying things like “since when were you…” or “I thought you were…” He’s just lying there, hands folded on his stomach. Watching Sam.

“Just two people.” He feels some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “But…thanks.”

“No problem.” Dean pauses. “That wasn’t a _moment_ , was it?”

Sam grins. “Nope. Not a moment.”

“Well, good, you know how I feel about…”

“Chick flick moments, I know.”

Dean pulls his foot up a little higher, and then reaches down and pulls his sock off of his foot. Before Sam has the chance to lean out of the way, Dean’s balling the sock up and flinging it across the room. Sam raises his hands to ward off the smelly projectile, making a soft sound of disgust. Dean cackles like an angry chicken.

“Now give me back my sock,” he says, and Sam glares.

“You just threw it at my face!”

“So?”

“So, it’s mine, now.”

“My foot’s cold!”

“Should’ve thought of that before you threw the sock at me, asshole.”

“ _Sam_!”

~

Sam is taking Latin, and Psychology, and a whole host of other classes that cause him to lose sleep at night (which Dean is quick to remind him is stupid, because he hasn’t gotten less than a B on any assignment so far), but even with finals happening all around him (for instance, he has his Psychology final _right the hell now_ ) Sam finds that he has trouble concentrating on the important things. Important things like, you know, _studying_ (which he hasn’t done for his Psych final, _at all_ ).

No, instead his brain is focused on the things that don’t matter. Like car rides underneath a dark and sleeting sky. Like Christmas music playing softly on the radio. Like…

Sam shakes his head.

“I’m gonna fail everything,” he mutters, and Dean snorts, and then leans slightly to the side, towards Sam.

“You have a pencil?” he asks, and Sam glares at him.

“You’re supposed to bring your own pencil!”

“Yeah, but you always have like, ten of them.”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he’s afraid he might launch them right of of their sockets, but he reaches for his backpack and pulls a pencil out of the inside pocket anyways. He hands it to Dean, who grins and winks at him (seriously, it’s shit like that that only encourages people to think they’re boyfriends or married or whatever, which had been Jessica’s _first_ question upon meeting them – “So are you two married?”), and then straightens up, facing the front of the room where their professor shuffles papers, and then clears her throat.

“All right, books, notes, and laptops away, backpacks and purses closed, and ID cards face-up on the table, please. You’ve got two hours, starting when you get the Scantron and the question packet. Good luck.”

Sam takes a deep breath as the Scantrons and packets are handed out. He glances quickly over his packet – version B – and the questions on the first and second pages, and then picks up his pencil and gets to work.

All of his finals are like that. Remember to bring a pencil, go in, sit down, and fill in little Scantron bubbles for two hours. The only exception is his Latin final, which has a grammar and essay section on a separate piece of paper, and while he’s reasonably certain he did well on the grammar, there’s a part of Sam that’s worried he did less than stellar on the essay.

However, as Dean constantly reminds him, there’s no point in worrying after the fact.

Except, when Sam puts those worries out of his mind, he’s instantly inundated with thoughts about Gabriel. About the sleet, and the warmth of the car, and the way his breath had fogged the window. Gabriel’s quiet “You gonna be okay? You want me to hang around for a while?” and Sam’s response, “No, I’m…I’ll be fine. Promise.”

 _Promise_. Yet here he is, substantially less than fine. He still has to fill out the formal complaint form against Zachariah. He has his laptop with him – he could do it now, before his Criminal Justice final. He _could_.

Sam pulls his laptop out of his backpack and opens it, staring at the screen. After a long minute, he pulls up Google, and then the advising homepage – bookmarked, right up in his tabs bar. Sometimes he opens the page up and just…looks at it, but now he navigates through until he finds the page he needs. Complaints forms. He has the option of printing one out and delivering it in person, or else filling out a form online. There is absolutely no reason for him to print anything out. In fact, Sam usually tries to avoid printing things. Save paper, save trees (something that Dean sometimes mocks him for, but it’s a good habit to get into, and Sam has been trying to instill it in his brother, too).

Sam clicks the “download form” link and watches as the progress bar fills up. Then he opens the form in a Word document, and starts to fill it out. Name: Sam Winchester. Semester Standing: fifth.

When he finishes, he saves the file and then closes his laptop, slipping it back into his backpack. He’s got three hours until his final. That’s more than enough time to walk over to the nearest computer lab and print out the form.

On the table next to his elbow, Sam’s cell phone vibrates. It’s a text from Dean – texting is, somehow, the only technology aside from cars that Dean has taken to like a duck to water. Even copy machines occasionally give him trouble, to Sam’s endless amusement.

 _Whats up?_ it reads. Sam ignores Dean’s atrocious texting grammar, and thinks about how he should respond. “I’m just about to print out a complain form so that I can hopefully get my advisor fired?” Or maybe “I’m thinking about going to visit that guy Gabriel because I can’t stop thinking about him?” No, better to go with “Surprise! Your little brother likes dudes! And not just dudes, but older dudes in authority positions!”

Dean’s not exactly the best at recognizing subtlety, and so usually requires at least some measure of bluntness, but Sam’s relatively certain that sending that message would be a bit too much.

He picks up his cell phone and types in, _Getting ready for final. You?_ and then hits send.

Then he pockets his cell phone, hauls his backpack over his shoulder, and heads for the computer lab.

~

Finals finish on Friday, and the campus closes Saturday evening, but both Sam and Dean are finished by Thursday night – Sam with his Biology final, and Dean with his Art History exam (which, he informs Sam, involved far too much writing for his taste, and he had to do _four_ essays and identify like _twenty_ different paintings and sculptures). All that’s left is for them to maybe grab some dinner before they go, although, to tell the truth, Sam isn’t terribly hungry, and most of the good places on campus are closed for the night.

It’s almost six o’clock, and the printed out complaint form feels like it’s on fire, folded in Sam’s jean pocket.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks him. The car is parked around the corner, in one of the faculty lots, but Dean never pays attention to those signs and he has yet to get a ticket, so the cycle continues. All Sam has to do is say “yes,” and he can just…leave. He doesn’t have to go through with the complaint form, he doesn’t have to see Gabriel again, he doesn’t even have to see _Zachariah_ again, not if he doesn’t want to. He knows how to schedule his own courses. He knows what he needs to graduate.

He can just go, and there doesn’t have to be anything more to it than that.

“I’ve got a thing,” he hears himself say, effectively ruining any chances he might have had of graduating without a fuss. Dean raises his eyebrows, scowling. He’s been pissy for the past day and a half, and the only thing Sam can think of that could have gone wrong has to do with Dean’s mystery boyfriend. Sam hasn’t heard him say a word about his holiday present, but that’s probably got something to do with it, too. Did the guy reject Dean? Didn’t like the present? Sam’s not sure yet.

“A ‘thing?’”

“Yeah.” Sam shifts uncomfortably. “I have to go and do something. Wait for me?”

“Like I have a fuckin’ choice,” Dean huffs. “Don’t want to leave you behind and have it start hailing or flooding or something. All right, go. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

Sam takes a half-step towards his brother, prompting Dean to raise his hands, still scowling darkly. “ _No moments._ ” Sam laughs.

“Right,” he says, and turns towards the advising center. He doesn’t want to walk up the hill, and he almost considers the merits of getting Dean to drive him a little closer, but he takes one look at his brother’s expression – bored, impatient, uninterested – and realizes that he’s never going to get a “yes” in response. So Sam steels himself, pulls his jacket tighter around himself, and then heads towards the administration building.

There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, and Sam’s shoes slip against it as he hikes up the hill, but for the most part the walk is uneventful, filled only with his own frenetic thoughts about the complaint form in his pocket, and the inevitability that he _will_ be seeing Gabriel again, before he leaves. He might even be seeing Zachariah again, and that thought is…substantially less than pleasant, but it’s not like he can do anything about it, right? Is it like court? Does he have to show up so that Zachariah can face his accuser?

Sam stamps his feet twice to get the snow off his soles, then steps into the administration building, immediately feeling stuffy and too hot as the outside chill vanishes, replaced by the steady, dry warmth of indoor heating. He stomps one more time, just for good measure, and then heads downstairs, his wet shoes threatening to make him skid several times, but he always catches himself at the last minute.

That’s a pretty good metaphor for his life, actually.

The advising center is decorated with so many multicolored fairy lights that Sam’s eyeballs feel like they’re swimming in their sockets, but he’s still somewhat disappointed to note that someone has taken down the rainbow arrow signs. The whole place smells like peppermint, and sweat, and that damp sock smell that you tend to get when you put a bunch of snow-covered people in a single room. Sam skirts around a woman carrying a large stack of paper, surprised to find that he knows his way to Gabriel’s cubicle almost by heart. Well, not by _heart_. That makes it sound like it’s more than it is.

Which it isn’t.

 _Yet,_ he thinks.

Jesus _Christ_ , where did _that_ come from?

He shakes his head as he approaches Gabriel’s cubicle, stopping just outside and wondering how one announces oneself when there doesn’t happen to be a door to knock on, because Gabriel is sitting at his desk, head bowed, writing. Sam can’t see his face, but the set of his shoulders is intent.

He shoves his hand into his pocket, touching the complaint form. He clears his throat. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel looks up, and Sam sucks in a startled breath.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he says. There’s really nothing else he can _think_ to say, because Gabriel is…

Gabriel is _beat the hell up_.

“Hey there, kiddo.” Gabriel grins at him. His bottom lip is split – healing, yeah, but still split – and he’s got a plaster over his nose. His right eye is swollen almost completely shut. “Come to say goodbye before break?”

“I came to give you my complaint form,” Sam says vaguely. Gabriel drums his fingers against the top of his desk, drawing Sam’s attention – his knuckles are bruised, too. How hard do you have to hit something for your knuckles to bruise? It’s been so long since Sam got into a fight that he’s almost forgotten.

 _Pretty damn hard,_ he thinks. “What _happened_ , sir?”

“Don’t start with that ‘sir’ shit.” Gabriel motions for him to step into the cubicle, and Sam does so, dropping down into the small seat and trying to keep himself from nervously crossing his legs. “If you want to know the truth, me and my cousin had a …disagreement.”

“Disagreement?” Cousin? Sam scans back through his conversations with Gabriel, and…

And Jesus, he means _Zachariah_. Zachariah is Gabriel’s cousin.

“Yeah.” Gabriel touches his nose, wincing slightly and then grinning. “I think he’s a massive douchebag and that he should quit his job. He thinks he’s God’s gift to the planet Earth and that I should quit mine. We both feel _very_ strongly about our opinions.”

“But you’re cousins,” Sam says, and Gabriel snorts, and then makes a soft, animal noise of pain and reaches up to touch his nose again. “Stop that, it’s just going to keep hurting if you touch it.”

“Yes, Doctor Winchester.” Gabriel’s eyes glitter with mirth.

Sam is captivated

“So you…” He swallows. Studies Gabriel’s bandaged nose – it’s probably purple and swollen, underneath, maybe even broken – and his blackened eye, and his split lip. Gabriel, Sam realizes, has…a nice mouth. And his eyes aren’t brown in this light, but almost gold. And the way he’s sitting…not just sitting, but leaning forward, _listening_. Like what Sam has to say is important to him. “You did this for…me.”

Gabriel smiles serenely. “Of course.”

“ _Why_? I’ve got the form right here, I…” Sam swallows, and then digs in his pocket for the folded piece of paper, pulling it out and almost shoving it in Gabriel’s direction. “You didn’t have to do this. I could have just given this to you and it would be _done_.”

“There’s never any guarantee of that,” Gabriel says softly. “There’s never a guarantee that things will go right, just like there’s never a guarantee that things will go wrong. I wanted to make sure that at least _one_ thing went your way.”

“But…” Gabriel just _looks_ at him. Steady, calm, and Sam wants to…wants to lean forward and…”Would you have done this for someone else?”

Gabriel blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Would you have done this for someone else? For one of the other students. You said I wasn’t the first.”

“No, you’re not.”

Gabriel leans back slightly. Putting distance between them? Or is it just a meaningless motion?

“So?”

Gabriel laughs, softly. “You can’t just leave it at a thoughtful gesture, can you?”

 _Not when it might be more,_ Sam thinks. “No, I can’t.”

“Persistent. I like that. I…” And Gabriel looks…almost uneasy. Like he’s not sure if he should keep talking. Like he thinks that what he says next might be dangerous. “I don’t think I would have, no. But this has been going on for so long.” He breathes out, soft. “Maybe I just got tired of it. Of seeing it. Got tired of no one trying to do anything.”

“So you did it yourself?”

“Maybe.” Gabriel shrugs. “Or maybe there’s some other reason, I don’t know. I don’t usually psychoanalyze myself, and I _definitely_ don’t psychoanalyze myself in front of _students_.”

Students. Has Gabriel ever directly called him a student before? If he has, Sam can’t remember it, which means it hadn’t made much of an impact on him at the time, but _this_ …this is different. This is Gabriel calling him a student for a specific reason. Because he…

Because he’s trying to distance himself from what’s happening? Because that movement, that shift backwards, meant more than Sam thought?

“But you _did_ do it for me,” Sam says quietly, probing, just making sure…

Gabriel doesn’t answer for what seems like a long time. Maybe a minute. Maybe longer. But, eventually, he leans forward again, and he reaches out and he takes the folded complaint form from Sam’s loose grasp. He unfolds it carefully, lays it on his desk and smoothes out the creases. Sam’s signature, at the bottom, is the clearest thing on the page, and he watches Gabriel touch his fingers to it, almost contemplative.

When he answers, he doesn’t look at Sam, but he sounds sure. More than sure. “Yes. I did.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Okay, then,” he says. “Okay.”

Gabriel glances at him. Sam wants to reach up and touch the curve of his cheek, wants to runs his fingertips over the edge between bandage and skin. Wants to soothe that black eye with ice packs, with a kiss.

He doesn’t do any of that. What Sam does, is to get to his feet, and to say, “Thanks, Gabriel.”

“Any time, kiddo. Any time you need me, that’s what I’m here for.”

 _I don’t think that’s part of your job description._ Sam holds his hand out, and Gabriel, after a moment, takes it. Doesn’t shake it, only holds their palms together, fingers curled like they’re clutching a secret between them, and they’re afraid that if they let go it will fly away, never to be seen again.

Hell, maybe that’s _exactly_ what they’re doing.

“Have a good holiday,” Sam says. Gabriel’s palm is warm and dry as it slips away from him.

“You too. Tell your brother not to worry so much. Castiel is looking forward to having him in the spring.”

Sam nods. “I will.” Maybe that will ease some of…whatever it is that Dean’s experiencing. It’s not exactly an apology from his secret beau, but maybe it will make him a little bit less worried about the coming semester.

Sam leaves Gabriel’s cubicle, not looking back. Not because he doesn’t want to see Gabriel (he does), and not because he’s worried that Gabriel won’t be looking after him (he can feel the guy’s eyes on him even as he walks away).

No, Sam doesn’t look back because as soon as his back is turned, he starts smiling, and he doesn’t want to give himself away entirely.

Outside, the steel-grey sky opens up, like someone has uncapped the jar of heaven, and it begins to snow.


End file.
